Odd Stuff I’ve Said

I’m guessing some would recommend I don’t write about this, but, well, you all know I’m eccentric as it is—so, fuck it. Writers already have the stigma of being a weird bunch, but you’ve heard, likely, all the usual shenanigans—so, I’m doing you one better.

Not just researching murder methods, talking to people who they make up, or being totally willing to do dangerous/stupid things for the sake of a story: nah, I’ve got a set of much more unique quirks.

And it involves words and language. Continue reading

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Flash Fiction: Briny Deep

“Deep down there, in the deep, what did they find? What could make them sleep? On what do they feed, and what is seen by their endless eyes?”

“Stop!”

“The tales they tell of what they have is not one for the foolish—only the dead.”

“No, please. This is going to hurt us. You are wrong.” Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Smells Like Coffee

“Between the three of us, we have genius on lock,” said one, and he slurped his coffee. None of them noticed, or perceived even subconsciously, that they were breathing in perfect tandem.

“Oh, yes, we are sure to make this world quake with fear,” said another, and he took a long draw from the creamy froth he had in his cup.

“I agree,” said the third, and he wiped his brow, which was sweating. Without talking about it, planning, or any indication of forethought, the other two did so too.

“So, then, we should begin on the plan—we need to work out how we will rule the world.”

“I agree with that.” Slurp. “First though, I think I need a refill on this.” Continue reading

Year Two Christmas Collection #11: Weirdest Personal Article! “Why I Wear A Jacket All The Time”

(Originally Posted Septemeber 13th, 2017.)


I don’t know of many creatives without some odd habits. And, with me, the most prominent and noticeable ones are my night owl tendencies and my relationship with jackets. I’ve talked about the night and my place in it before, but I’ve barely, if at all, discussed my jacket fixation, and I think it’s about time I fix that oversight. Because I goddamn love jackets. If I could comfortably sleep in a jacket I would—and don’t think I haven’t tried. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Pile Of Stones

I’d never learned to count past ten, so I’m not quite sure what age I am. We keep marks on the door and the walls, with chalk and dirt and mud. And fecal matter. So, if we ever learned how long a year is, we could figure it out, and then we’d know our ages.

Until then though, I am somewhere past ten. And for the last five of that ten, I’ve been in this room. They bring me birthday gifts, and I counted them. Each one was a slightly larger sack. I wear them until they are too small. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Foam Sword

One could not overstate the significance of the foam sword. Perhaps, in the entire history of the room, and the house’s various occupants through the years, the foam sword was the most important thing to ever grace those four walls. For one, it tied the room together nicely; for another, it made several religions with its very presence. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: The Light Underneath The Door

In the dark of his room, he sits and sees the light that comes out from underneath a door. Not a light is on in his room, not even the usually on computer screen. His head hurts, throbs even, and the darkness is the only thing that makes the pain even slow, even lessen a little. But, he also lives alone, and that light does not make sense. Continue reading

Why I Wear A Jacket All The Time

I don’t know of many creatives without some odd habits. And, with me, the most prominent and noticeable ones are my night owl tendencies and my relationship with jackets. I’ve talked about the night and my place in it before, but I’ve barely, if at all, discussed my jacket fixation, and I think it’s about time I fix that oversight. Because I goddamn love jackets. If I could comfortably sleep in a jacket I would—and don’t think I haven’t tried. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Forgot

Westin did not recognize where he was. The walls of silver, and the floor of deep magenta, and the uniform screens of solid yellow dotting the walls, all did not match any familiar location.

And, adding to the issue, sitting up proved to be quarrelsome. His feet would not function, and it was only with some serious effort across his stomach, and a flailing, pushing motion of his hands, that he did rise and sit. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Do You Really Need Sleep?

“You do know I do need to sleep, right?” he asked, peering up at her. With her hair forming a halo around her face, Gertrude looked like some mixture of angel and a trickster god—her countenance round and full of mischief.

“Oh, I don’t know—sleep might not matter all that much, actually. Did you ever try not sleeping?” Continue reading

Flash Fiction: The Tasteless Meal

Jess examined the bowl of white something or other and looked up at her friend.

“So, what do you think of it?” Heather asked.

“I mean…” Jess said and then bit her lower lip. “It is by far the most unique piece of food I have ever had.” Continue reading